


Rumpelstiltskin

by Gallons_of_the_Stuff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Drama, F/M, Family, Fantasy, Romance, Sorry Not Sorry, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:18:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallons_of_the_Stuff/pseuds/Gallons_of_the_Stuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was all she ever wanted, and she knew exactly how she could have him - even if it would not be real. Then a stranger made her an offer she could not refuse, for a price that seemed like a joke at the time. Was it really just a teasing remark though? Or would her deal cost her more than she ever wanted to give up?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Merope Gaunt

It had been sunny the day she met _her_. Bright and warm, with just enough of a breeze to keep the sun from becoming hot. A gorgeous, perfect day, made all the brighter because her father and brother were no longer there to make her life so very, very miserable.

She had sat in the shade of an oak in the garden, pretending not to watch through the hedge as Tom Riddle rode with Cecilia Abingdon down the lane. Handsome Tom Riddle. Gorgeous Cecilia. Laughing and smiling, without a care in the world. So happy.

She watched them with envy, with jealousy, wishing that _she_ was the one sitting there, merry and carefree, with the Muggle man she pined for. Wished he would look at her like that, laugh at her jokes – wished he would take her home to that house on the hill, where they would live happily ever after. No more taunts from Morfin, no more disappointment and anger from her father – she would be free of them.

In her worst moments, she thought about the potion she could use to make that fantasy a reality. Thought about it – sometimes gathered the ingredients together. Sometimes lit the fire under the cauldron, began to brew. Thought about how she could offer him a drink on a hot day, how she could slip a few drops into his cup – how he would look at her, as if seeing her for the first time, and tell her all the things she had always wanted to hear.

This was rapidly becoming one of those moments. But then, quite suddenly, _she_ was there, standing beside her in the shade, peering through the hedge as Tom Riddle and Cecilia Abingdon went around the curve and were lost from view. _She_ had long, long black-as-shadows hair, much longer than the fashion currently was, that she wore haphazardly pulled back from her face, but still it fell loose down her back in a cascade of curls and waves, thick and luxurious, but too messy to be pretty, and green, _green_ eyes, the color reminding Merope of the darkest of curses.

When she met those eyes, she was caught – caught in their emptiness, caught in their depth, the secrets they promised and the nothing they revealed. Whatever surprise she might have felt for the presence of this stranger did not manifest, not even when _she_ spoke, saying so calmly, so matter-of-factly that it could not be mistaken for a joke, that she could make her beautiful. And when Merope questioned her, disbelieving, she had said it again, so simply there was immediately no room to doubt what she claimed.

_“I can make you beautiful.”_

There had been no kindness in those green, green eyes – there was nothing at all, so flat they should have been inhuman. Merope had narrowed her crooked eyes and asked the obvious thing, because despite the madness and violence that ran in her family, she was no fool: for what price?

For a brief second, those empty eyes flashed with bright, sickening amusement, and her lips quirked into a faint, barely there smile, and her reply was so casual, so flippant, that Merope had taken it for a joke.

_“Only your firstborn, of course.”_

It had seemed so silly, those eyes alight with that amusement, her voice almost teasing – Merope did not take it seriously. Not with the prospect of being beautiful, being appealing. Not with the idea of turning Tom Riddle’s head burning bright in her mind.

She had let her do it, that stranger with the eyes like Death – she had let her make her beautiful.

There were potions for her hair and skin, spells for her teeth and eyes. The potions made her feel like she was burning, like she had been dipped in acid and thrown on hot coals – but they made her skin flawless, a perfect shade of alabaster, without a hint of a blemish; her hair became thick and silky smooth, shining darkly in the light, and it always held the style she put it in. The rearranging of her teeth had left her crying and unable to eat, and light felt like a host of stabbing needles for the entire day after she had fixed her eyes.

The worst part had been when she had instructed her to lay down on the bed, on her stomach, and had trailed her wand – _holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches_ , she had told her once – down the uneven curve of her spine, just slightly crooked, hardly noticeable, but she had said it would only become worse with age. She had lain awake all that night, biting the pillow she had given her to hold, screaming as her spine straightened and everything else moved to match its new shape. _She_ had sat beside her, stroking her hair and soothing her, reminding her that this was what she wanted, that beauty was worth the price of this pain, was it not?

And oh, how beautiful she had been, when they finished. She had stood straight and just tall enough, a princess in that shack, with hair like the night sky and eyes that were straight and bright and focused in a face that was no longer heavy, but light with happiness. She had promised her, promised her and Merope believed, that the beauty would not fade, that she would never go back to looking the way she had before they started – she would never be ugly again.

She taught her spells then, opened her up to all the magic that she had been too scared to use with her father and brother. Magic for everyday tasks, like cleaning, cooking, weeding and laundry, mending and altering clothes. She taught her stranger things too, things to make her smile and marvel at what she was capable of. There were spells for if her father and brother ever came back as well – defense and offense, hexes and curses, wards and shields. They would never be able to torment her again, she told her.

There were other lessons – dance and history, etiquette and all things Muggle – and a great deal of advice on how to make Tom Riddle fall in love with her, _without_ the use of magic to make up his heart and mind for him. She paid special attention to those, but it was the magic she liked the best, because it was always a surprise, how wonderful it was, how good she managed to be at it.

Snaring Tom Riddle had proven easy after all that she had done for Merope, and before the year was out, they were married – she had never been so happy. The wedding was held at the Riddle House, and while his parents could not have been said to smile, at the very least, they did not disapprove of the new addition to their family – not when she was so pretty, soft spoken and polite (not at all like her horrible family) and made their son so happy. There was gossip, the good kind and the bad kind, but most of the town agreed – the Gaunt girl had really flourished without her father and brother to drag her down. Not to mention how she managed to mellow out that prat Tom Riddle.

They went to London for their honeymoon – _she_ had seen them off, and Merope had hugged her tightly, thanking her with tears in her eyes for making it all possible. For not letting her do what she might have done, purchasing happiness with a potion, creating love with magic – for making her dream _real_. After the months they had spent together, learning to read those strange green eyes, she still barely noticed the jaded irony that flashed in them, and had laughed away the strange reply, the almost bitter smile.

_“Don’t thank me yet.”_

When she returned to Little Hangleton, Merope had very little trouble convincing the Riddles to let her ‘cousin’ stay with them in the manor house – she was a little odd, sometimes, but it was the quiet sort of odd that was easily ignored. It was only right that Merope have some family around, so long as it was not her brother or father.

It was only right that she be there when Merope realized she was pregnant – it should not have surprised anyone, but it seemed to anyway. Everyone except for _her_ , of course. She had smiled, that same little quirk of her lips as that first day, her green, green eyes flashing with a kind of anticipation – for the first time in too long, Merope had thought of that joke, the ‘price’ she owed this woman for her help.

_“Only your firstborn, of course.”_

It haunted her, but only for a moment before it was forgotten again, swept away by all the things that had to be done to prepare for the coming baby. It was just an old joke, after all.

She was always there, ready to see to her needs, to keep her healthy and happy – _water, Merope? A bite to eat? Here, you look tired; why don’t you have a lie down?_ As she had been since she stepped into Merope’s life, she was wonderful and so, so helpful – even Tom’s parents, who never quite warmed to either of them, acknowledged how the young woman seemed to make everything go more smoothly.

It was only natural that she attend Merope when the baby was born. Calm and steady, soothing, but even through the pain and effort, she saw something, a bright and strange something, in those Death-like eyes when she pushed the baby boy into the world.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” she had said, and Merope had agreed without even thinking on it – for his father and for her father, of course. It was just right – hating her father did not matter when the name balanced wizard and Muggle together, making her son a perfect blend of both. It was right.

Right as the way _she_ smiled at little Tom, how she cooed and whispered to him. How she played with him as he grew. The unease Merope felt when she watched her with him, her little boy, was pushed aside time and again, by how good she was with him, how happy he was, and how happy she and his father were.

There was never another child, a fact that Merope wondered about sometimes – but they did not need one, did they? Not when they had Tom; brilliant, beautiful, magical Tom.

And of course he was magical – more magical than anyone she had ever seen, more magical than her father, brother, and herself combined. As magical as _she_ was, as powerful. Of course she helped with that too – making the senior Tom Riddle understand, accept, even be _proud_ of his wizard son and his witch wife.

When the letter came, the response was a forgone conclusion – Tom would attend Hogwarts, as none in the Gaunt family had done since Corvinus Gaunt. The excitement as they sent him off on the train was as palpable as how much they would miss him while he was gone.

He wrote to them often, to _her_ even more – about his classes, his Slytherin housemates, his professors and how well he was doing. His intelligence was a point of pride for both his parents – it reflected well on them, did it not? And he was so very bright, Tom was. The brightest student to ever enter Hogwarts.

Every holiday he spent at home, happy, healthy, and full of stories that delighted them to no end. And always, _always_ , her son sought _her_ out, asking questions, learning more about magic, going back to school eager for more – it was as if he expected her to know more than his professors, know more than anyone he could talk to. The unease was constant at those times, whenever she saw them together, Tom’s face animated as he spoke to _her_ , and on her face a smile that reminded Merope too much of those words, that offer.

_“I can make you beautiful.”_

_“Oh yeah? For what price?”_

_“Only your firstborn, of course.”_

That she was a witch was something Merope had always known – who but a witch could make such a claim and actually follow through with it? But as time went on, more and more she wondered if she was entirely right about that – there were things, little things, bigger things, that made her think that maybe she was not a witch at all, but something else. Something stranger.

She tried to convey this to her husband one day – she told him what _she_ had done, how she had made her beautiful and taught her all the things that had helped her catch his attention. Tried to make him see what worried her about the woman who had brought them together, who sat in the garden with their son and utterly enchanted him – but she could never tell him those words, because how could he forgive her if she had agreed, however unknowingly, to such a terrible price? So he just smiled and kissed her, saying he was glad that _she_ had been a part of their lives, because he would never have been so happy without Merope, beautiful and whole, as his wife.

(She never admitted what might have been, had _she_ not been there that day. About the potion she might have brewed and the plans she had half-made, dissolved into a distant nightmare when _she_ had approached her.)

Barely into Tom’s Hogwarts career, war came – like many larger homes, they were asked to house refugees, and the Riddle House was filled with children, laughing, playing, more than it had ever seen before. Merope thought that, had things been different, the Riddles never would have taken those children into their home – but things were not different, and for close to five years, they hosted over a dozen, some for only a few months, others for the entirety of the war.

When the first ones arrived, she hoped that Tom would take a liking to these children, who were close to his age, who were normal, who were not _her_. But though he was always polite, unfailingly kind to them all, he never sought out their company – for him, when he was home, _she_ was always his first choice. For her part, she was as good as any of them with the children – better perhaps, though it was obvious, to Merope at least, that she favored Tom above all others.

They were getting closer, she knew, with every day he was home, with every moment they spent in each other’s company. And that was when she noticed it – perhaps because she was looking so very closely for something wrong – how this woman, despite the years, had not changed at all, how she looked no different from that very first sunny day. Her hair was still black as shadows, without a hint of gray; her skin as smooth as marble, not a wrinkle or laugh line to be found; and her eyes the green of Death – she did not age.

She said nothing, and if anyone else had noticed, they did not speak of it either.

The first time she saw them kiss was the summer immediately following Tom’s graduation from Hogwarts – Os on all his N.E.W.T.s, truly the best student the school had ever seen. She had gone out to the garden to get them – they had a surprise dinner planned – and stumbled upon the scene, which was clearly not meant for anyone else’s eyes. The familiar tilt of his head, bent toward hers; the ease of his hands resting on her waist; the casual way her fingers played in his hair – it was plain to see that this was not the first time they had stood thus. Merope wanted to be sick, wanted to burst upon them with all the fury of a mother, to snatch her son from that woman’s arms and whisk him away to safety. But Tom… he looked so happy, and his quiet laugh at something _she_ said made her heart twist. And she did nothing.

Because it was clear, so very clear then, that he was already under that woman’s – that _creature’s_ – spell. Her son was in love, ensnared by _her_. And it occurred to Merope that this was what _she_ had meant, almost two decades ago, when she had told her the price of her help. She knew then that there was nothing she could do, had never been anything she could do – because in allowing her to make her beautiful, she had agreed to what she had thought was a joke. She had given her exactly what she wanted.

_“Only your firstborn, of course.”_


	2. Tom Riddle Sr.

Tom Riddle, son of Thomas and Mary Riddle, knew quite well his place in the world. He was well aware of what other people thought of him – knew most of those in Little Hangleton did not care for him or his family, because they did not care for any of _them_. He knew they were considered snobbish, but really, was it snobbery to look down on those who were truly beneath them? He knew he was handsome, knew he was intelligent, knew he was rich – knew he was quite the catch.

Of course, having the reputation he did in Little Hangleton, he knew better than to look for female companionship there – none of the ladies there were of a proper sort at any rate. Cecilia Abingdon, who often rode with him, was from Greater Hangleton. She was beautiful, came from the right sort of family, and had money besides – she was not the best company, a bit too snide for his liking, but she laughed at his jokes and stroked his ego, which he supposed was all that really mattered.

For several weeks, he had been idly entertaining the thought of proposing to Miss Abingdon. Idly, because he did not truly wish to do it – it just seemed the sort of thing he should do, after the number of times they had been out together. Though it might not have crossed his mind to ponder it, if she and his own mother had not been dropping hints. As previously stated, she was beautiful and well off, but there was nothing about her really that made her special to him, nothing that made him consider her for a wife. A wife should be chosen for compatibility, of course, but there should be something about her that stood out too, shouldn’t there?

It was as he was riding – alone, for once – contemplating these things that a bit of laughter brought him out of his thoughts. _Feminine_ laughter – the sound of it quite pretty. Standing up in his stirrups, he peered ahead down the lane, trying to catch sight of what girl sounded so merry.

The two young women walking arm-in-arm toward him were not familiar – strange, that; he had been sure he knew most, if not all, of the citizens of Little Hangleton by sight at least. As the distance between them shrank, he studied them, rather curious – one wore her hair unfashionably long, a wild tangle that looked barely contained by whatever she had pulled it back with, her dress a dull, unremarkable gray with white polka dots. She looked as if she might be pretty, a little too tall, but it was the other girl that caught his attention as they came close enough for him to get a truly good look at the pair.

Her clothing was quite flattering – the cut and color showing off a rather fine figure, accentuating her creamy skin. Her hat covered the majority of her hair, but he could see just enough to judge it dark, not quite black, likely in a modern cut. As they passed him by, their laughter dying down in the presence of another, she looked up – and Tom found himself rather caught by her dark eyes. Under the shadow of her hat, he could not quite tell the color – it might have been brown, or a very dark blue, or perhaps even a near black – but something about them seemed to sparkle, lit like stars in the night sky, enchanting him. She smiled shyly, revealing a flash of bright white teeth, before ducking her head and denying him the sight of those bewitching eyes.

His gaze flicked to the young woman’s companion, whose expression was as if she was holding back a laugh as she flashed a smile at him, perhaps a bit of a question in his gaze.

“Good day to you, sir,” she said, quite cheerfully, and Tom blinked, returning the smile a bit hesitantly as he replied.

“Good day, ladies.” They passed without another word, yet he found himself twisting around in his saddle to look back at them, watching until they were nearly around the bend and out of sight. It was then, just before they could disappear from his line of vision, that the two young women seemed to lean rather desperately against each other, and the sound of what seemed to be helpless giggles reached him.

It made him smile, an expression that grew as he turned around – well. He may not know who the two were right then, but he resolved then and there that he would find out. 

* * *

“ _Merope Gaunt?_ ” said Tom Riddle, utterly shocked at the identity of his mystery girl. His lip wanted to curl in disgust, but he was still too mired in surprise to contort his face into the expression. Then the confusion set in. “Wait, isn’t she cross-eyed and… hideous?” He hesitated to use the word, because it did not describe at all the young woman who had looked up at him with those sensational eyes – who, if the man telling him this was to be believed, belonged to a family that engendered even more dislike in the Little Hangleton community than his own. “And insane?” he added as he remembered the father and son who had not made an appearance in several weeks.

“Aye, well, I’m no’ too sure about it, but rumor is, after the old tramp and the son got hauled off, the girl’s cousin showed up – fixed her all up, right pretty, though how she’s done it is a mystery.” The older man nodded, sticking the pipe he had been smoking back in his mouth and puffing on it. This time, Tom’s lip _did_ curl a bit, but he reasoned it was no worse than sitting with his father when he had his pipe out, and forced the disgust out of his expression – even if this man was of a decidedly lower class. But _The Hanged Man_ had always been the best place to get the latest gossip, frequented as it was by those who made it their business to know everyone else’s business.

Still, he used the pretense of sitting back to digest the information to put a little more distance between the two of them – the man was horrid, knowledge aside. “I didn’t know there were any other members of the family around,” said the younger male, by way of keeping the senior talking.

“There’s not,” the elder replied, nearly grunting as he puffed away. “Girl’s family name is Evans or somemat like that. Harriet – ‘ _but call me Harry_ ’,” this in a truly terrible falsetto, “she introduces herself. A distant cousin on the mother’s side, she says.” He paused, but Tom did not feel the need to interject, as the man had merely stopped to peek into his pipe, as if it was a bit unsatisfactory in some way. “They’re both livin’ in that shack – looks a sure sight better than it did when the menfolk were around, no snakes nailed to the door or anehthin’ like tha’. Two girls have it lookin’ almost homey, last time I passed by.”

Tom barely held back a sneer – as if a place like that could ever be made into something ‘homey’. But he supposed this man, being what he was, could develop that opinion – where he lived was probably little better than the Gaunt’s shack.

At that thought, surprise and disbelief had his mind turned inward once again – could the beauty he had seen on the lane _really_ be Merope Gaunt? At the moment, he could not quite recall what the daughter of old Marvolo Gaunt had looked like – indeed, he was not even certain he had ever seen the girl. Maybe in passing, a brief glance, as little more than a shadow beyond the hedge surrounding the meager garden – was it possible he had been missing such a gem practically in his own backyard these last few years?

But no – surely not. He could clearly recall what her father and brother looked like, and there was just no way that the young woman from the lane could possibly be related to those inbred terrors. The man was mistaken – had to be. His mystery girl could not conceivably be Merope Gaunt. There would be no justice in the world if she was.

* * *

It appeared there truly was no justice in the world, Tom thought as he deliberately stopped at the Gaunt shack the next day – for there she was, his dark-eyed beauty, speaking animatedly to the girl beside her as they exited the stone building (a part of him noting that it _did_ , in fact, look much better than he had ever seen it).

“Hello, ladies,” he said, stepping from the lane onto the short path that led to the door. They both looked up, falling silent at his greeting, and he kept his smile friendly as he took in the surprised expressions on their faces – his eye drawn, once again, to the girl who was turning out to be Merope Gaunt. In a new and improved fashion.

Now, for his excuse for being here. “I heard about your father and brother, Miss Gaunt,” he said, his voice as kind as he could make it. “I thought I would stop by to see how you were faring.”

The green-eyed girl snorted quietly, crossing her arms as she appraised him. “More like came to see if the rumors were true,” he heard her mutter, and Merope elbowed the other woman, hissing in an equally low tone, “ _Harry_ ,” as her eyes glanced nervously from her cousin back to the unexpected visitor – namely, him.

“What?” Harry returned. “You know it’s true.” But there was a smile on her face, as if that fact did not actually bother her, and Merope seemed content to let it slide now, turning her attention back to Tom.

“I am quite well, thank you, Mr. Riddle,” she answered his indirect inquiry, a small smile lighting her features – how on earth had she become so beautiful, he wondered, when her male relatives were so obviously malformed? Perhaps there had been an affair. “How are you, if I might inquire?” Ah, even her voice had the power to draw him in – quiet, but beautiful. Like a harp being softly played, yet begging to be listened to.

“I, too, am quite well, Miss Gaunt.” The conversation was entirely banal, but he found himself smiling out of more than politeness anyway – she was just so beautiful. With great reluctance, he dragged his eyes from Merope Gaunt to her companion, seeking a distraction. “I do not believe we have met.” If his smile was a little less when he looked at the green-eyed girl, it was only noticeable in the way it flicked higher when he glanced back at Miss Gaunt.

“Oh,” Merope said, startling as if remembering her manners – she seemed to be having as much trouble keeping her attention off him as he was with her, Tom noticed with a great deal of satisfaction. “Mr. Riddle, allow me to introduce my cousin, Harriet Evans. She’s staying with me while… while my family is away.” The way she bit her lip while she avoiding saying just what had happened with her father and brother was quite appealing, he thought.

“I prefer Harry,” spoke the other girl, causing Tom to drag his eyes off of Merope for another moment. “Though Miss Evans will do, if we must be formal.” The smile she flashed was rather… mischievous, and the dart of her eyes between himself and her companion was decidedly amused. As if their attraction to each other was utterly obvious – which, he supposed it was, since he was not making much of an effort to hide his sudden interest in Miss Gaunt.

He ought to be trying harder – she was hardly an appropriate companion, no matter how beautiful she was. So he made himself look again to the other girl. “I’m afraid, being that this _is_ our first meeting, that I am obliged to call you Miss Evans – at least until we are better acquainted. Isn’t that right, Miss Gaunt?” Dammit, back to Merope. He almost wished he had not come, but then he would not have seen for himself that this gorgeous creature was indeed the girl who had lived here for almost as long as he had been alive.

“Yes, of course.” There was a distinct note of disappointment in her voice, he thought – as if she had rather hoped that he would agree to call her cousin by her silly nickname. If only so that she and he might do so as well? Quickly he shook that idea from his mind.

He might have deluded himself into thinking she was an appropriate candidate for that proposal he was so reluctant to give to Cecilia, if he had not confirmed who she really was. The thought of the beautiful blonde girl almost made him grimace, and he took a step backward, toward his horse, as he rather forcibly reminded himself that, given her identity, he should stop and put Miss Gaunt out of his thoughts. Better, he should leave – staying would only reinforce the temptation he was starting to feel.

“Well,” he began, only to pause as he had to rapidly come up with the rest of his exit strategy. “I suppose I should be on my way, now that I have confirmed you are well, Miss Gaunt.” Tom flashed one of his more charming smiles. “I do not wish to intrude and keep you from whatever plans you might have for the day.”

“Oh,” Merope said, and there was no mistaking the disappointment this time – his satisfaction soared again before he tamped it down, deeming such a reaction ill-suited to the situation. “Have a good day then.” Tom nodded, swinging back onto his horse and wishing he had not caught the downcast look on her face. “To you as well,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Riddle.” Her companion, on the other hand, seemed as cheerful as ever. “Have a marvelous day. Feel free to stop by again sometime – though I do hope you might send word ahead, so that we might prepare some tea next time.” Looking at the little shack, he barely withheld a grimace – he would not wish to step inside that hovel, no matter how well the two young women seemed to have cleaned it up. “Or better,” Miss Evans added, as if struck by a sudden inspiration, “perhaps we could all visit that little tea shop in Greater Hangleton together. Next Thursday? Say, two o’clock? I think that sounds like a wonderful idea, don’t you Merope?”

Tom stared at the green-eyed girl, rather shocked – she could not have been more obvious, and yet… and yet… His eyes went to the beautiful Miss Gaunt, taking in her surprise and then the almost hopeful look in her eye as she glanced at him. “I…” She floundered, but only for a moment before she seemed to gather her nerve and say, quite confidently in fact, “I think that’s a splendid idea. If Mr. Riddle would like to join us, even better.” The look she gave him then was different from any she had yet sent his way – why, it was almost challenging. He felt entranced once more, and spoke without thinking.

“Yes,” he said. “I am inclined to agree. So next Thursday, two o’clock. I shall see you then, ladies.” He dipped his head, nodding to them both in turn. “Miss Evans, Miss Gaunt.” His eyes once more lingered on Merope, enjoying the sight of the almost cheeky grin (and the fetching blush) that lit her face at his agreement – he returned it thoughtlessly before riding off. Even knowing better, he could not regret having formed the plans.

* * *

Many times during the intervening week, he thought about not going. Even being seen with the Gaunt girl – beautiful Merope, as he kept thinking of her – was a bad idea, which could have detrimental consequences on his relationship with Cecilia. Not to mention how his parents would react to her – their son, hanging about with the tramp’s daughter? Scandalous! No matter how beautiful she was or how impeccable her manners, _breeding_ was quite important, and she simply did not have that.

He went anyway. How could he not answer the little challenge she had issued? It must have taken some courage for the shy girl to do so, and how could he disappoint her again? And of course, after spending half the afternoon in her company – the cousin often faded to the background, but he was well aware of the smile she watched them with, like a satisfied matchmaker (should have annoyed him, that, but Tom found himself amused instead) – how could he not make plans to see her again?

She was a delight – visually appealing, of course, but the mind that went with it… she was at turns shy and bold, incredibly kind without being intolerably soft hearted. She laughed at his jokes, but only if they were funny, giving him an arch look that was at odds with the blushes that turned her porcelain skin pink when he complimented her if what he had said was inappropriate. She was also surprisingly well-informed, with strong opinions on subjects he had not been aware a woman might have any interest in – intelligent without making him feel intimidated by it.

Permission for the use of given names was exchanged by the third time they went out together, and by the sixth, Tom was utterly convinced that Merope Gaunt, despite her poverty, was his perfect match. The only thing wrong with her was her background, which he was starting to think of less as a hindrance and more as a set of circumstances that had shaped her so well into the woman he was rapidly falling for.

She was far above the supposed blemish of her birth, to the point that he felt almost humbled by the fact that she so clearly liked him. This extraordinary woman, who could very likely snare a husband of much greater influence and import than him, was interested in a Squire’s son from a small community of little renown (in the grand scheme of things, Tom could recognize that his family may have been the best in Little Hangleton, but there were far greater families that Merope could choose to become a part of and who would be lucky to have her).

He could only hope to make use of her interest before it waned, tying her to him before he lost her to someone better than him. In this effort, he went to her cousin – the odd but tolerable Harry Evans – to make his intentions known. When he started the conversation, he was glad that Merope’s father and brother had yet to return from wherever they had been taken and there was only this young woman to talk to about Merope – by the end of it, he was not sure if he might not have preferred one of those two instead.

“So you think you’re good enough for Merope, eh?” That strange almost permanent air of amusement about the girl had turned wry as she spoke the words before Tom could begin to work the dialogue around to the subject he really wanted to talk about - there were times when she was formal, her speech reflecting good breeding and education, and times like now, when she almost sounded like the tripe that frequented  _The Hanged Man_.

He nearly bristled at her opening, not just for the way she cut to the heart of the matter, but for the as-yet-intact pride of his upbringing – it took considerable effort to swallow back a peevish retort that would have reminded her firmly that the question should have been the other way around – Merope’s station in life was most certainly below his. Except, her wording was exactly as his own thoughts had been – that Merope was in all likelihood better than him, that he needed to act quickly before she realized that, or spend the rest of his life pining for a woman who outclassed him despite her birth. It was only that Harry saw it so clearly as well, he instantly worried she would advise Merope against him, that caused defensive anger to rise.

There were times when honesty was the best policy – perhaps now was one of those times.

“I… would like to be.”

Her green eyes studied him so coolly, like she could see the very depths of his souls, that Tom started to sweat, even though the day was cool, almost chill, their pace a leisurely walk. There was something intensely unnerving about Merope’s cousin in that moment, something that made the young man consider the stories about the Gaunt family, the ones that pegged them for more than just insane – devils and snakes and curses and witchcraft.

“So you intend to marry her?” Green eyes should not have been so unsettling – green like the color of hers was for growing things, new shoots of grass and budding leaves. Or so Tom had thought, but not then. Not then.

“Well… I want to see her, just the two of us, so that… it’s clear we’re compatible. Date her, if you will. But… yes. If she’ll have me.”

Harry stopped then, making him stop as well, and turned fully to face him. Some romantic idiot had said that eyes were the windows to the soul – looking at hers, Tom rather thought they were more like mirrors, peering into his own soul and reflecting back at him all the ways he was inadequate, all the ways he was not worthy. He also thought that he very much did not want to know what Miss Harriet Evans’ soul looked like.

“We both know how she feels about you – she’ll say yes in a heartbeat. So you’ll marry. You’ll move her into that house on the hill, and your parents will very much disapprove – don’t try to deny it, we know they will, because they’ll think she’s trash. Maybe they’ll put on a polite show, but maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll do everything they can to make her feel inadequate, to make her feel inferior – maybe they’ll hope that if they treat her bad enough that she’ll divorce you and won’t be a stain on the family anymore. Do you think you can protect her from that?”

Face pale, Tom opened his mouth to reply, but had been unable to get anything out before Harry went on.

“And that’s just your parents. What do you think those gossips in town will say? They’ll speculate – you know they will – they’ll talk about how she managed to snare you. What sort of girl she made herself to get your ring on her finger. They’ll call her a gold digger and a social climber – and if there’s a baby born within nine months of your wedding date, you can bet they’ll have something to say about that. I know you never cared about what people think of you, Tom, but can you protect Merope from that? How do you think she’ll feel about all the gossip and snide comments?”

“She’s stronger than that!” said Tom, voice heated, a flush of anger on his neck and creeping up his cheeks. “She knows – she’ll _know_ – that I love her and nothing else matters. She won’t let anything they say get to her – and if she does, I’ll remind her of how wonderful she is, how she’s better than them and they don’t know a damn thing about her!” He did not realize Harry was smiling until he got to the end of his short rant, blinking in confusion when he noted the shift in her countenance.

“Well… at least you know she isn’t a delicate flower,” her cousin said, turning to resume their walk.

“I…” This woman was decidedly more confusing than Merope, he thought as he shook his head and took an extra-long step to catch up. “Of course she isn’t – it’s part of what I love about her.”

Harry’s smile was a cat-who-got-the-cream curve of the lips. “You really love her, don’t you?”

“Yes. I do.” He had already said it – what was the point of dissembling now? If possible, Merope’s cousin looked even more pleased.

“You know I’m obliged to make threats about if you hurt her.” Tom actually laughed, and so did she – but he was left with the impression that he had been threatened much more effectively than any gun-toting father could ever hope to accomplish.

* * *

They made it a Christmas wedding. Half the town turned out, despite the weather – though it was a fairly mild winter day, there was snow still on the ground from a storm three nights before. Harry made the comment that they were there just so they could see the inside of the Riddle House, laughing under her breath as she did so. Tom and Merope both agreed.

His parents had put up a surprising lack of fight when he had told them – they were not warm when they met his bride-to-be, but they were not entirely cold either, and at the wedding they at least did not make any show of disapproval. He thought their acceptance of the match might have been helped by the fact that it turned out Harry had some money – she financed half the affair, much to the elder Riddles' surprise, in addition to making the cake and the dress.

Merope was resplendent, a picture perfect bride – and there were a great many photographs, as Harry turned out to be quite camera-happy. Where she had gotten that handheld monstrosity was a mystery, but she went around snapping pictures at the reception while Merope laughed at her cousin and smiled at him – he could not imagine a more perfect day.

For their honeymoon, they went to London. Certainly, it was cold and gray and probably quite terrible – but they spent a lot of time indoors, for reasons not mentioned in polite company, so Tom couldn’t really say. When they did venture out, they shopped and ate and laughed together – time passed quickly, in a haze of blissful love, and nearly a month later, they returned to Little Hangleton, still the happy newlyweds.

Eventually, as with all things, there had to be some downs – arguments, unhappiness, hurtful words  – but they were always brief, apologies quick and reconciliation easy. Merope had managed to round off his rougher edges before the wedding for the most part, and those that were left were rather quickly blunted, until they rather perfectly fit together, as he had known they would.

When Harry moved into the house at the end of January, Tom found himself the victim of several innocuous pranks, much to the delight of his wife and her cousin – he took them well, but rather enjoyed attempting to get the green-eyed woman back. The time he managed to get her covered in flour was a particularly amusing triumph, though it had forced their pranking into subtler avenues, thanks to his mother’s protests – Merope had laughed at the both of them for a good hour, and even the slightest mention of the incident had her dissolving into giggles for a solid month.

In March, they received word that Merope’s father had returned – he did not come looking for her, but for weeks, Merope held herself with a certain tension, and her cousin was never far from her side. If either Tom or his wife went out, past that shack, Harry went with them, no matter what she had been doing when they decided to leave the house – always.

Early in May, the local physician confirmed that Merope was pregnant – Tom was at once overjoyed and beset with nerves. Many expressed surprise along with congratulations on the announcement (some even confessed to thinking the girl pregnant before this, because of how quickly the two got married, but he ignored those), but not Harry. Nothing surprised the woman – aside from the entire bag of flour dumped on her head – and she had approached him with a rather broad grin after the appointment.

“You had better be a good father,” she had threatened him good-naturedly – he had seen the look in her eyes though, and knew the worries in her mind. Especially after he had finally teased tales of childhood from his wife and learned how she had suffered under the hand of her own family. His response would have seemed inappropriately solemn to anyone else, but it was the only thing he could say in the face of the concern in Harry’s gaze.

“I will.”

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle entered the world with a hearty cry on December 31st, 1926. His father had been shut out of the delivery room by his cousin-by-marriage after a near fainting spell, and had paced in the hall the entire time, until that same cousin threw open the door with the broadest grin he had yet to see on her. Tom the senior – they would have to make some distinctions now, and there was much laughter over that – had smoothed the hair off his beautiful wife’s forehead and kissed her before turning to his son, swaddled in Harry’s arms. She had passed him that tiny bundle, and Tom had marveled over the little life they had made – he vowed again that he would be the best possible father to his son, the best husband to his wife. He would love them always.

* * *

Marvolo Gaunt was found dead in his shack the following spring – they did not speak it, but Tom knew the weight that left his wife’s shoulders then. He was secretly glad the man would never again hurt his darling Merope.

* * *

The day they told him their secret, Tom could not really say he was surprised – there had been little things, all sorts of signs, for years and years, pointing to this explanation. He had his moment of disbelief, had demanded his proof – had gotten it, in brilliant lights spouting from the ends of wands, levitating furniture, and the very odd sight of Harry turning her hair purple, green, and blue before it settled back into black. Merope had taken little Tom to bed after the demonstration, her wand tucked up her sleeve, the first time he had known it was there, while her husband sat and talked with her cousin.

He had suspected that they had only shown him small things, what amounted to parlor tricks for them – Harry told him he was right, and told him, in great detail, about the other things magic could do. The bad, the worse, the ugliest secrets – and the brilliant miracles too. Horrors like what his wife’s family had done to her – miracles like what Harry had done for her instead. She warned him, like she had always done.

“She’ll lock her wand up if you ask her to – she’ll pretend she isn’t a witch and never had an ounce of power if that’s what you want. Sweep it all under the rug.

“I’ll do what she asks of me – I’ve hidden what I am for most of my life. But your son – that boy will be a brilliant wizard, no matter what any of us do. There will be a letter, inviting him to study at one of the best schools in the world for people like us – you can say no. Merope will accept it and keep him home. She might even try to keep him from doing magic. She might try to teach him herself – neither will work out well. He’ll resent you, both of you maybe, if you deny him the opportunity.

“And he’ll resent you if you make her lock up her wand and pretend she isn’t as special as she is. If you don’t though… If you accept us for what we are… You teach him something more valuable than you can ever know.”

The idea of asking Merope to hide from him, to hide something as much a part of her as her heart – it was intolerable. Even if it scared him, if what she could _do_ made him sweat chill fear, he could not do that to her. Nor could he do it to his son. He would just have to get used to the fact that they could do magic. And he did – to the point that he could be utterly proud the day they got the letter, prouder still when he saw his son holding his very own wand the first time, and thrice more again when they saw him off on the train.

(He never could quite get used to the snakes though – that was just weird, but he thought he did a good job tolerating it at least.)

* * *

Harry was as much a part of young Tom’s life as she had been a part of his and Merope’s – Tom the senior was glad that his son had the woman, because she had been so instrumental in their lives, a blessing really (even in the moments she terrified him), that how could he not be?

Merope seemed concerned, from time to time, but other than that one rather desperate conversation, she did not bring it up. They were happy – a happy, loving family, and her cousin was just a part of that family. It was good for Tom to appreciate family.

(Especially after that incident with Morfin when he was seven – that had been just a few days before the Big Reveal, might have even triggered it. Tom did not get the full story from Harry, or Merope, or even little Tom for that matter, but he saw how the man was covered in hives and pustules after, the way he flinched at the sight of the green-eyed woman from that day on. He – and his son, apparently – had been rather impressed with how Harry had dealt with his wife’s brother.)

The war was agreed to be a nasty sort of business, but other than the children brought into their home, they saw little of it – magic made things like rationing rather inconsequential, after all. There was, of course, the _other_ war – the one waged by a mad wizard on the Continent, and the rumors that he was the one driving much of the mundane war as well – and that seemed to affect them more. His son was often solemn, often out of sight with Cousin Harry – she taught him a different kind of magic than the kind they taught at Tom’s school, the elder thought. The kind that would protect a wizard and his family from men like Hitler and Grindlewald.

He was worried, and proud, the day Tom graduated and stepped off the train for the final time – best in his class, of course, clever, clever young man, of course a father would be proud of that. The worry stemmed from his memories of those half-hidden conversations, and the questions he had asked Harry while Tom was away – there was still a war going on and even if his son was too young to enlist in the mundane armed forces, he had reached his majority by wizarding standards. And his son was not the kind of man who sat idly by while others suffered.

So he was utterly unsurprised when Tom announced his intentions to go to the Continent just a few days later. He offered no objections – surprisingly, neither did Merope. His wife had merely looked at their son, studied him for a long moment, and then flicked her gaze to her cousin’s. He did not imagine the tension that tightened the line of the woman’s shoulders as the two stared at each other.

“Harry, you’ll be going with him, of course?”

Merope’s cousin relaxed, a smile – parts relieved and sad – pulled her lips up.

“Of course.”

The senior Tom Riddle could be blind when he wished, but he did not miss the look passed between his son and that woman – and he realized something not dissimilar to his wife's thoughts upon witnessing the two together in the garden. Whatever might happen in the course of the next few months, the younger Tom would come home, alive and well, and he would not be alone, no matter how far he went from his home.

Indeed, he did not think his son would ever be alone in this world. Not so long as Harry was there.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Guess My Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4415465) by [Gallons_of_the_Stuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallons_of_the_Stuff/pseuds/Gallons_of_the_Stuff)




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